


Hidden

by MonikaVeraForest



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 21:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20443049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonikaVeraForest/pseuds/MonikaVeraForest
Summary: The aftermath of the Armaggedon't had made Aziraphale restless enough to sleep.But were angels meant to dream?





	Hidden

**Author's Note:**

> One of these days I'll stop doing one-shots and actually do something more substantial... Today is not one of these days <3  
Find me on Tumblr: Aziraho
> 
> Enjoy!

The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh. It was alive, of course, whatever poor thing that flesh belonged to. Death didn't dwell down here, he refused to come past the gates. Nothing here belonged to him. Nothing here deserved his rest. 

Crowley wouldn't receive it either. 

He would be kept down there forever, flaming whips breaking his skin. Pale hands breaking his wings, tearing his feathers, purple eyes looking down at him with glee in them, making him suffer, suffer, suffer 

“Enjoying yourself, Aziraphale?” 

\--- 

“Crowley!” 

Aziraphale shot upright, wings breaking free and toppling books from shelves in their haste. He stared around the dark interior of his bookshop, and every corner of it screamed back at him, wooden shelves turning into iron bars, discarded blankets coiling into heavy chains under a frightened gaze. Breathless, the angel barely whispered: “Let there be light.” 

Nightmares curled up and shriveled into non-existence. Fallen books became just that, the smell of scorching fire ebbed into an unpleasant memory. Aziraphale closed his eyes and told himself to breathe, counting seconds as he did. In and out, in and out – there you go, dear, everything is alright. It was just a nightmare, you're fine, you're safe. 

The mantra helped, if just a little. He suddenly understood it a lot better. 

Voices of reality started slowly re-appearing on the edge of his consciousness, and Aziraphale's attention was drawn to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Perhaps dusty, but still true, the hands of it showed that it was just a little after three am. Somehow, the ticking of it sounded like whips cracking on exposed skin. Aziraphale squeezed shut his eyes, willing somehow for the lingering sounds to disappear, but reality did not want to comply. His mind twisted the images from its midst, pushing them over and over in front of his eyes. 

Some very small and rational part of him told him that none of it was real, but the rest screamed and raged. He had to see Crowley, had to make sure he was alright. Just a quick glance into his bedroom – no need to call and wake him up for some frivolous nonsense. 

Yes, just a peek, and he'd be gone. 

The miracle worked before Aziraphale had even spoken his wish. Completely unexpectedly, to the point where he wondered if he had manifested the sudden teleportation at all, he was taken from his sofa and into a dark bedroom. His arm brushed against a well-tended leaf that bounced and rustled against its companions, creating noise that seemed to the angel as if a hurricane tearing through the room. It would wake anyone, he thought, but a glance towards the bed sent a familiar dread back to claw at his chest and stomach. There was nobody to wake. The black covers had been neatly pulled over the king-sized bed, unwrinkled as if nobody had ever slept in it.

“Relax, old boy,” Aziraphale told himself sternly, if unconvincingly. “He must be here somewhere. Perhaps he didn't feel like a kip.” The voice he heard sounded ridiculous, and he wondered if it was really his own. Still, he heeded it and slowly pushed open the bedroom door. Light flooded and drowned his anxieties, and he thought about why he hadn't noticed it coming from beneath the door before. 

His eyes adjusted, and every last ounce of worry seeped from his body, leaving him deflated. Relief wasn't enough to keep him upright, and he leaned on the door frame. 

There, behind a newspaper-covered table sat Crowley, experienced hands working on covering a bushel of freshly re-potted lavender with soil. The telly was on, grumbling lines from some drama, and Crowley grumbled right back as he worked. “Of course your wife is bloody pissed, ya twat, you left her alone with your son for two weeks.” Aziraphale did his best at branding this image to the back of his eyelids. 

“Are you going to stand there forever?” he was very suddenly asked and Aziraphale jolted upright, staring at the back of Crowley's head like a deer in headlights. “Get in here, angel.” 

A shuffle of feet, a door closed and Aziraphale approached the desk, allowing himself a seat opposite of the demon, careful not to disturb the newspaper. Crowley didn't take well to dirt on his floors. “Good evening,” he said. Why did he feel like he had done something wrong? “I'm sorry to intrude without asking, I-” Most likely because he had. This flat wasn't the sort of place he went to without an invitation. It was Crowley's safe haven, much like the glasses he wore and that weren't on his face at this moment. The naked eyes made him feel even worse. 

“Spit it out, then. What's gotten you so upset?” Crowley's hands stopped their motions and he set the lavender to the side, leaving nothing between them that Aziraphale could hide behind. Angel's eyes kept flitting between his hands, nervously clasped over his stomach and Cowley's eyes. It was driving him insane. 

“Well, it's going to sound rather silly. I believe I had something of a nightmare when I fell asleep. I was not even really planning on it, it just sort of happened.” 

“Mm? Came to me because you were scared, angel?” The mocking grin on Crowley's lips, although not ill-natured, still made Aziraphale's stomach knot. He averted his gaze towards the lavender, counting the stalks. 

“Didn't know there was anything out there that could scare you. Saw any big bad demons, then?” Perhaps he would have continued too, if he hadn't been leveled by a gaze of fury the likes he had seldom seen on Aziraphale before, and never directed at him. 

“You were being tortured, Crowley. Right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do.” 

Silence. 

Twelve stalks. 

A chair scraped the ground. 

“Aziraphale, I-” 

“It was Gabriel, you know. With the whip. He asked me if I was enjoying the show as if I was supposed to. By the Heaven's, I really thought they had gotten you, Crowley, I kept hearing the fires crack. What manner of demon could I possibly see that would have been worse than that? They were going to keep you until you were in a state worse than death, and I-I... I am petrified of how alone it would leave me...” 

Gentle knuckles traced along Angel's cheek. They broke the glassy stare, bringing wide blue eyes to stare up at Crowley. A soft hand somehow untangled itself from the messy, iron clasp over Aziraphale's stomach and kept Crowley's close. 

“I couldn't sleep very well,” he began, “it's always easier with someone nearby. What do you say to keeping me company, angel?” 

“It sounds lovely, dear,” whispered Aziraphale. 

Within careful touches and very few exchanged questions, the angel and the demon made themselves comfortable. Sleepwear was miracled, doors were opened and closed and covers moved. Later yet, arms found their way around tired bodies, heads were buried into chests and legs were tangled. 

Goodnights were whispered. 

“You know, not Devil nor God could keep me from you,” Crowley had said in that odd space between wakefulness and sleep. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale had replied, “I'm an angel. I know these things.” 

Crowley's fingers traced the heaven's onto Aziraphale's back.


End file.
